


Let Down Your Hair

by mudkipwrites



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Agent Fulcrum - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Rapunzel Fusion, Art by Sempaiko, Battle Scenes, Canon Compliant, Crack Treated Seriously, Enemies to Friends, Episode: s02e17 The Honorable Ones, Episode: s03e21-22 Zero Hour, Escape, Eventual Happy Ending, Fairy Tale Elements, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Long-Haired Kallus, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Threats of Violence, change of heart, hair cutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25248709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudkipwrites/pseuds/mudkipwrites
Summary: “Right,” Kallus says. “I have hair. Lots of it.”
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios
Comments: 32
Kudos: 86
Collections: Kalluzeb Summer Exchange





	1. ART BY SEMPAIKO

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anath_Tsurugi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anath_Tsurugi/gifts).



> Anath_Tsurugi requested an AU set in a fairy-tale setting, and for some odd reason, the idea of Kallus with long, flowing hair would not leave my head! This one's for you, Anath. Thanks for sharing your eloquent, elegant writing with the Kalluzeb fandom! We love you!!!
> 
> Additional shout-out as a thanks to Sempaiko, who provided some incredible concept art.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Make sure to check out Semp's other artwork at their tumblr! (https://sempaiko.tumblr.com/). She gave me the okay to post this here - please remember to always check with artists before sharing their work anywhere!


	2. PART ONE

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

**A LONG TIME AGO, IN A GALAXY FAR, FAR AWAY**

* * *

_...There were two, loving partners who desperately wanted a child._

_They lived among the poorest of Coruscant, making their living by serving the Empire. Though their lives had shown them little mercy, the partners still nourished a secret hope that they might someday bring a child of their own into the world, making it a kinder and gentler place for all._

_And then, one day--after waiting and dreaming in vain for so long--their dearest of wishes came true. One of the partners bloomed round and heavy with child._

_Those next, tender months were the most generous that they’d ever known. Even the most grueling tasks could not stop them from working long into the night, minds and hearts full of joyful anticipation. One of the partners, clever and kind, wove together cloth to make a patchwork quilt; the other, gentle and strong, bound together ship parts to form a cradle._

_All was well, until the time for the child to be born began to approach. In the final weeks, the partner who carried the child grew terribly ill. More terrified of losing their lover than even the cruelties of the Empire, the other partner sought out help from their employer. With nothing to bargain, the fearful partner had no choice but to agree to the Imperial officer’s terms: a form of re-payment, to be gathered upon their own, prescribed time and choosing._

_The hours moved fast. As promised, their employer dispatched a medical droid at the time for the child to be delivered. Their child was born: a strong, healthy boy, with honey-gold eyes, and hair the color of windswept, desert sand. Kissing him on the forehead, the new parents cried with admiration and joy, naming their son “Alexsandr”--which means, “helper of all humankind.”_

_But, alas: their joy was to be short-lived._

_Not an hour after their child was born, Imperial troops arrived on their doorstep. Demanding to see their newborn son, the soldiers burst into the home, tearing the newborn babe from his crib. As the child and his parents wept, the cruel employer declared: “This is my favor, called in! Your son shall become my newest soldier. I will take him and train him for the glory of the Empire. He will be wealthy and strong--more than you could ever offer him here--and he will live to know only the Empire’s justice.”_

_Neither the child, nor the parents, ever saw each other again._

_The officer was as good as his terrible word. Young, golden-haired Alexsandr would grow up to be a high-ranking agent of the Empire. He would surpass all others with his strength and ambition, and he would devote himself to the stories of justice they told him. He would not know that his parents had been bound and taken away as slaves; he would not know the true meaning of his name. It would be a long time into his future before he would learn to be clever and kind, gentle and strong. To learn the purpose of why he was here._

_And yet, he would learn. For, one day, Alexsandr Kallus would be rescued..._

* * *

**30 YEARS LATER**

**ABOARD THE** **_BLUE MILK,_ ** **AN IMPERIAL TRANSPORT SHIP**

**OUTER RIM, NEAR LOTHAL**

* * *

Flashing sirens and strobing alarms throw relief on two figures bounding down a hallway. One of the men is muscular, purple-furred and alien; the other is a lanky, teen-aged human. Both appear to be wearing some kind of hooded cloaks, which only just hide their bursting armfuls of golden-orange fruit. They do not _,_ however, appear to be moving in the manner of people who have acquired such goods _honestly._

“Ya couldn’t just stick to the _plan,_ could ya, Ezra?!” growls the larger man. His legs are long, striped and powerful, and each one of his steps requires three bounds from the shorter. “I _know_ that ya heard Kanan when he told us _no funny business.”_

The teenager, who is wearing an oversized Storm trooper helmet, laughs cheerfully. 

“And _you_ know, _Zeb_ , that this is ‘a fine addition to my collection!’” Ezra Bridger replies. “Did you even get a good look at these scuff marks? This one’s probably even older than the Clone Wars!" 

He raps a knuckle against the domed helmet. 

Garazeb Orrelios, rolls his eyes impatiently. “ _You’re_ not gonna be older than the Clone Wars,” he replies,” if we don't get outta here, an’ _fast."_

Even though they are being pursued by Storm troopers, the tall Lasat cannot help but smile. Was it a _good_ idea that Kanan Jarrus had sent them among Imps to get surprise fruit for his girlfriend? _Probably not._ But he couldn’t deny that it was _fun,_ evading the Empire like this, and causing some chaos along the way. 

He could’ve done _without_ Ezra setting off _every_ alarm on the transport ship, though. 

"Aw, don't be so grumpy!" the teenager pants. "At least _this_ way, you'll get a chance to beat up some bucket-heads!” 

Before he can snap back a retort, Zeb finds himself skidding to a halt. He and Ezra have encountered a door in their way: shielded by a blue, crackling electro-shield. 

“ _That’s_ not good,” Zeb grunts. 

Ezra pulls off his helmet. His hair is indigo-blue, and his skin is tanned dark olive from living beneath Lothal’s bright sun. Squinting at the door, he places the sphere of the helmet upon the floor, dumping his armful of fruit into it for safe-keeping. 

“Nope,” the human agrees, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “I mean, I’m _pretty_ sure that I could get it open, but it might just be faster if we take another route.” 

However, the sound of clattering Storm trooper boots and buzzing of comms units from around the corner give Zeb several doubts about that second option. 

“Time to put yer smuggler’s background to work, kid,” he instructs. Dropping his own armful of fruit into the helmet, he turns towards the clamor of soldiers. “I think that we got some company comin’.” 

No sooner had Zeb spoken, then a half-dozen soldiers entered the mouth of the hall. All of them are clad in the bright, cloud-white plastisteel of the Empire’s armor, and one of them wears a burnt-red arm cuff to signal his rank. Zeb quickly calculates the odds of their battle-- _shouldn’t be a problem--_ and steps forward, drawing his bo-rifle from his back. 

“Afternoon, gentlemen!”

Approaching them with a steady confidence, Zeb allows himself to stand at the fullness of his height. More than two meters tall, and armed to the teeth with the tools of a killer, he knows that he strikes an intimidating figure. 

Nervously, the captain of the group steps forward. “You there! Halt!” he calls in a nasally voice. 

Zeb pauses in his swaggering forward stroll. He rests his not-yet engaged bo-rifle against one shoulder, keeping his face pleasant and casual. “Yessir. And to what do I owe the pleasure?” 

The captain shifts uncomfortably. He keeps his heavy E-11 trained on Zeb’s chest. 

“You are under arrest for the unlawful possession of Imperial property.” 

Zeb raises one of his eyebrows. He raises an arm, revealing the emptiness of his cloak. 

“Not sure what yer implyin’ there, soldier,” he replies amiably. He’s attempting to buy Ezra more time to disarm that shield over the door by drawing this out. _Perhaps, we can avoid this little fight entirely._

The captain visibly bristles. “You and your associate over there were seen stealing goods from the cargo bay of this unit!” he replies. “Therefore, you are under arrest. It is our duty to take you into Imperial custody for disciplinary action.” 

Garazeb sighs. He smiles, tapping the mouth of his rifle against his shoulder. 

“Well, m’sorry to say it, but yer gonna have to find yourselves a new job.” 

A few of the soldiers look back and forth at one another, confused. There is a long silence. The captain, however, seems to be picking up on what Zeb is threatening--and he braces himself, feet splayed wide upon the floor. 

This keeps him from falling at the incoming attack. 

“Open fire! Open _fire!”_

Blaster-bolts ricochet off the hallway. Shouts of warning and pain clamor with sound. Garazeb Orrelios smiles, swinging his bo-rifle as easily as though he is sweeping the _Ghost_ with a broom. He is in his natural element. 

_“Backup! We need backup!”_

Striking two of the troops off their feet, slamming his bo-rifle into the helmet another, Zeb steadily works his way through the platoon of soldiers. Even among killers, he is more than comfortable; trained as an Honor Guard warrior, serving as the _Ghost’s_ muscle, Garazeb Orrelios is every bit the Lasat as he’s ever been. With almost a casual ease, he dispatches each of the Storm troopers one by one, until only the trembling captain remains. 

“C-come with me quietly, and there will be less repercussions!” the trooper squeaks. 

Zeb chuckles, shaking his head. Moving swiftly, he kicks the man over with one of his powerful feet,, knocking him senseless with the impact. 

“Never been one to be _quiet,”_ he replies. Turning to look over his shoulder, he calls: “Ezra! How we doin’ there, kid?” 

The teenager is still crouching near the base of the door. He seems to be speaking to himself, and working some kind of tool at the corner. When Zeb calls out to him, he raises one hand, displaying a thumb in the air. 

“Getting there!” he calls back. “But I need some more time!” 

Zeb opens his mouth to reply, but his ears snap backwards towards the mouth of the hallway. Once again, he can hear the sound of incoming troopers--and he _doesn’t_ like the fact that there are _more,_ or that they sound more controlled and determined by their march. 

“Well, ya just might not _have_ it,” he shouts. “We got more incomin’!” 

Turning back to face the approaching sounds, Zeb cracks his neck joints from side to side. _Just get in, get the fruit, and get out,_ he smirks darkly, thinking of Spectre One’s departing instructions. _Yeah, right. Like anything could ever be that simple!_

And yet, _no_ set of plans could have prepared him for what came next.

As the new wave of soldiers floods around the corner--this time, in a diamond shape, all surrounding one individual man--Garazeb Orrelios notices something that makes his heart _stop._

Something that makes his eyes stretch wide inside of his head, and makes his heart twist sickeningly within his chest. 

_No! It--it can’t be! Is that--?!_

At the center of the white diamond marches a man. He is wearing all black, right down to the boots, and is fitted with a severely-shaped helm and armored cuirass. But it’s not what he’s wearing that strikes Zeb with suck sickness: it is the weapon that he is spinning within his hands. Horribly familiar, and crackling with pulses of brilliant, golden-yellow light. 

The soldiers part, and the man steps forward. His golden eyes narrow, and he extends the bo-rifle. 

“You! Lasat!” he snarls. “ _Face me!”_

* * *

**EIGHT MONTHS LATER**

**ABOARD THE** ** _RELENTLESS,_** **AN IMPERIAL STAR DESTROYER**

**SEELOS SYSTEM**

* * *

_“Yer a failure_. _”_

The loss at Lothal haunts ISB Agent Kallus long after the rebels make their escape. 

It haunts him as he prowls for endless months after the _Ghost_. It haunts him as they slip once again through his fingers upon Seelos with the help of old clones. And it haunts now--in these late, early hours of morning--when he is shrouded in darkness, and kept awake by the cruel, mocking voice of Garazeb Orrelios.

 _“Yer a failure, Agent Kallus,”_ his enemy sneers. _“Yer weak. Ya couldn’t take me down in a battle, and you couldn’t catch me if yer life depended on it.”_

Kallus stares tiredly into the mirror. He sees only his bruised, sunken eyes staring back, but he hears the Lasat as clearly as though he is the one staring back. 

_“Yer useless, and the whole Empire knows it. Why don’t ya do us a favor an’ just disappear?”_

Alexsandr Kallus hadn’t _always_ been a failure. In fact, until now, his career had been quite the success. Raised among soldiers, Kallus had been marked for the ranks of elite military since he was a child. In his Academy youth, he’d always performed at the top of his class, demonstrating intelligence and strength unmatched by his peers. He hadn’t made friends-- _that_ didn’t get one anywhere--but he had been awarded the rank of captain at one of the earliest ages on record. By the time he was twenty, Kallus was graduating from Academy, and being deployed with his very own troops to serve on Onderon. 

_“Lotta good that did ya,”_ the wicked voice taunts him from inside him. “ _Ya couldn't even manage that. All it took was just one Lasat to break ya.”_

Kallus shivers, gripping either side of the sink. He knows that, on one level, this hatred for Orrelios comes from the fact that it’d been a Lasat who had slaughtered his troops. ( _Sometimes, when the nightmares are most vivid, he can picture the acid-green of his eyes)._ Yet he also acknowledges that this loathing comes from the stories his caretakers told him: the ones of how Rebels once murdered his parents, spreading their chaos like a pandemic.

“ _You never had family,”_ the voice of Orrelios mocks. “ _Ya never mattered to anyone.”_

Kallus sets his jaw. He stares at the mirror, a fierce line drawing between his eyebrows. 

“You’re _wrong,”_ he says aloud, defiant. “I belonged, once. To people who _loved_ me.”

With careful movements, he begins to unwind the fabric woven so tightly around his head.

The tightly-wound, ever-present fabric forms an intricate binding that he always wears. Even now, without his helm, and in the private confines of his quarters, Kallus still hesitates to reveal his precious secret. And yet, need for reassurance is stronger: he craves the living memory of the people who'd once chosen each other, had chosen _him,_ and to see the evidence of their love in his hands.

Working carefully, he slowly unfolds the binding--revealing the glimmer of bright, golden hair.

“My name is Alexsandr," he breathes to the phantom Lasat _(and to himself)._ "I was born out of _love_. I was born with a _purpose."_

First, his hair appears in the shortest of strands; then, it begins to fall in loose, shining threads, until the entity of his thick, golden braid is exposed to the air. Fully-revealed, set free from constraints, his hair falls bright and golden on the dim floor. It glimmers like beams of captured sunlight where it pools in circles around his bare ankles. 

"You're a liar," he tells the voice firmly. "I am _somebody._ I come from _somewhere."_

They had been unorthodox _,_ his parents--one human, and one golden-furred alien--a nd yet, Alexsandr knows in his _heart_ that they'd been good people. Although he'd never met them, he knows for a fact that they'd sacrificed their lives for his own, pleading with violent Rebels to spare their only son, and to take them away instead. _Only people who truly loved me would ever do that,_ he thinks to himself. _Only the family that I belonged to would ever consider such an alternative._

It's not regulation, but he doesn't care. This is why Alexsandr keeps his hair long: to honor the people that had once cared for him. To remember that he is _more_ than his failures, and to promise himself that he will always choose to do the right thing. 

It's what his parents would do. It's what he would continue to choose. 

"I'm coming for you, Orrelios," he whispers to the mirror. "And you and your Spectres _will_ know justice. I swear it, upon my family name." 

* * *

**EIGHT WEEKS LATER**

**STRANDED**

**BAHRYN, ICE MOON OF GEONOSIS**

* * *

_“Karabast!”_

The Spectres’ little jaunt to explore what was happening over on Geonosis had _not_ gone as planned. Not only had Garazeb Orrelios been separated from the other members of the _Ghost_ during an unexpected firefight with Imperial soldiers, he’d been trapped on the same side of open space as their much-hated nemesis, ISB Agent Kallus, in the escape pod he’d been forced into. To make matters even worse, they’d crash-landed upon the moon--the _ice_ moon, that was covered in _blizzards--_ and the transponder had been damaged within the wreckage. 

At that point, he should have just _expected_ that his night would only get _worse._

“Karabast, _Karabast!”_ gloved hands tighten around his neck, nearly crushing his windpipe with their bruising grasp. “What does that even _mean?”_

Zeb growls irritably at the man on his back. “Right _now,_ it means that yer a _whole lot heavier_ than ya look!” he replies.

It’s not that he cannot handle the climb _(Lasats are excellent climbers),_ or that he cannot bear the weight of their girth _(Lasats are exceedingly strong)_ . It’s more that he deeply _resents_ the fact that he’s currently carrying his most hated rival upon his back; and delivering him up and away into safety; out of the reach of hissing Bonzami, and into the glittering cold outside of the cave. 

“Budge up there, Kal!” he demands, shifting his shoulders. “Yer makin’ it _real_ hard to breathe!” 

It would have been convenient if Agent Kallus had just died in the crash. And yet, the Imp had survived, struggling out of the wreckage with a broken leg to challenge Zeb to a foolish rematch of their duel. Typically, such a wound would be manageable, and Zeb would have simply left the man to fend for himself in the elements. And yet, they are not dealing with the typical; they are stranded upon a frozen _wasteland_ , where leaving an injured man out to the cold will surely result in their quick demise. Although it would be rational, perhaps even _fair,_ for one enemy to desert another, Zeb is just not that kind of man. He is _honorable._

It’s moments like these that make him _regret_ that. 

“ _Careful!”_ Agent Kallus yelps into his ear. “The goal is _not_ to fall!” 

Zeb growls and rolls his eyes. Right now, he’s wishing that he hadn’t taken the time to splint the man’s leg, to rub the heat back into his fingertips. _I’m too soft for this job! Just look where mercy gets me!_ And yet, he still knows--deep in his heart of hearts--that he’d make the exact same decisions again. As someone who’d sworn allegiance to the _Ashla,_ and as the former captain of the High Honor Guard, Garazeb Orrelious will _always_ choose to do the right thing. Even if it _does_ end up with his enemy’s legs wrapped around him, babbling nonsense into his ear. 

“Ya think that I’m _thick_ ?” he replies. “I _know_ the goal!” 

The air around them is so cold, it threatens to seal Zeb’s nostrils shut on every inhale. Gazing past the deep gouges his claws have raked into the icicle on which they are suspended, he searches for light in the howling blizzard above. _If we could only get to the mouth of the cave,_ Zeb thinks, _then we could escape from the hungry Bonzami. Perhaps, we could even find some warm and safe shelter to hold out for the night._

“There’s got to be another way we can do this,” Agent Kallus mutters. It appears that he is thinking along the same lines as Zeb. “We can’t just stay up here forever.” 

Despite their situation, Zeb cannot help but smile. He’s learned more about this man tonight than he’d ever suspected possible: that he is clever, bright, and resourceful; that he is willing to work even with his enemy _(if it betters their mutual odds of survival;)_ ; that he is funny; that he has known loss and pain-- _great_ pain, including the death of his parents and crew--and that he is dauntless. _Relentless._ If ISB Agent Kallus sets his mind on a goal, he will do whatever it takes to reach that desired ambition.

Not unlike a Lasat, it seems that Agent Kallus just doesn’t know when to give up. 

“Well, ya got any ideas?” Zeb hears himself asking.

He finds that he actually _means_ the question, and wants to hear Kallus’ answer. Before tonight, he would never have asked the Imperial agent for any kind of insight; and yet now, against all odds, he feels as though he can trust him. At least, that he can trust him in this time of their certain death. 

“It was yer idea to climb the pillars instead of the walls, after all. You got that much right; maybe, ya got somethin’ _else_?”

For some reason, this suggestion makes the Imperial _freeze._ And not just shivering from the cold--but growing rigid all about his tall and muscular form, holding completely still for the very first time since they’d begun climbing.

“What?” Zeb asks curiously. 

It is almost _eerie_ to watch the thinking speed behind the other man’s eyes while everything else is suspended in stillness. 

“What is it, Agent Kallus?” 

“Uhmm,” the other man says. Quietly. _Oddly._

Zeb’s ears snap to attention. 

This is a _new_ tone of voice--one that he’s never heard. _Is that… embarrassment I hear? Awkwardness?_ Intrigued, he watches the other man’s face: the little creases of concentration between his angular eyebrows; the way that each steaming breath plumes into a shimmering cloud before his chapped lips. 

Unable to fathom what would make an ISB Agent suddenly clam up, Garazeb finds himself searching for answers.“Well?” he prompts. “You have some kind of idea?” 

To his _great_ surprise, he sees the other man _blush._ It is surprisingly pretty, the way that heat blooms across his pale, freckled face, washing his cheekbones and mutton chop gap with a pinkish color. _Why are you shy all of a sudden?_ Zeb wonders in amazement. _Why are you like this just_ ** _now,_** _as we dangle together above our_ ** _doom?_** _Not before, when I carried you across the frozen wasteland? Not earlier, after I handed you that warm meteorite?_

Rather than answer his question, Agent Kallus chews nervously on his lip. 

“Listen,” Zeb says encouragingly. _Impatiently_ He _has_ to know what is going on inside of the other man’s head; it might be the difference between their death and survival. “It’s just like ya said: we’ve _gotta_ trust each other. Neither one of us is getting outta this cave if we don’t” 

The ISB Agent’s golden eyes flick over towards him, then quickly off to the side again.“Uhh-um. _Well._ I. I _might_ have an idea,” he stammers. “But. It’s a _crazy_ one.” 

Zeb goggles at him. _What could possibly be more crazy than this?!_ Astounded by the other man’s hesitation, he pushes a bit harder than he probably should. “ _Confound it,_ Kallus!” he barks, ears back and exasperated. “If you’ve got an idea, then just _spit it out!”_

It’s a long, awkward moment. Confused, Zeb watches the struggle upon the man’s face. He doesn’t know Agent Kallus very well--but from his time spent with the other humans on the _Ghost_ crew, he suspects that he can identify several, complex emotions fooding his face all at once ( _apprehension; distaste; anger; resolution.)_ Whatever is going on, Agent Kallus is going through something major. 

He’s nearly decided to give up on him when Agent Kallus finally gives a resolute _nod_. 

“Great!” Zeb grins in relief. “Well done, Kal! Now, what’re ya---” 

Agent Kallus sweeps off his oddly-shaped helmet. He casts it aside; and, as the armored hood spirals downward, it is followed by a stream of what _appears_ to be endlessly-long, golden, shimmering, _hair._

_“---Oh?”_

It is the most unexpected-- _astonishing--_ sight that he’s ever _seen_ . If Zeb wasn’t practically freezing to death, every inch of his body burning from cold, he would’ve doubted the marvel unfolding before his eyes. Ridiculous, _beautiful,_ Kallus’ yards and yards of brilliant hair is unfurling into an intricate braid. Most of the threads stay in place, catching swirling the rope of hair in the wind; and yet, some of the threads fall, soft and loose, around his face, catching the icy wind and dancing with the gold flecks of his eyes.

For a brief moment, Zeb feels his heart stop. Kallus looks more fierce and _lovely_ than ever before--and the revelation of it takes his _breath_ away. Then, the discarded helm strikes the cave’s rocky floor, and it jarrs both of them out of the gaze. 

“Right,” Kallus says brusquely. “I have hair. _Lots_ of it.” 

It’s rather a ludicrous understatement, but Zeb will not argue. He doesn’t even know if he _can;_ Kallus seems to have been completely transformed. Each one of his words rings with power and the presence of command, and it doesn’t occur to him to resist.

“Right,” he echoes dumbly. 

“Alright, here’s the plan,” Kallus continues. “We’re going to get out of here by using my hair.” 

Zeb stares at him. 

As though this was a _normal_ thing for someone to say, Kallus presses on. “I’ll give you one end of my braid, and you can use the leverage to swing me over to the other side. I’ll work my way up, and then, once I’m outside, I’ll drop my hair down for you to climb.” 

Whatever Zeb had been expecting, this was _not_ it. 

He struggles to recover, finding only a disbelieving chuckle under his breath. “So, like, _what._ Yer gonna pull me up? By yer _hair?_ Like some kinda _stairway?”_

“That’s the idea,” Kallus replies. His voice is serious, and his face is perfectly stern. 

Zeb can’t help it: he begins laughing. 

First, low in his belly; then, bubbling up, until it pours out from his mouth. It is _insane._ It is _fantastical._ It will require Agent Kallus to rely fully upon his mercy, and, in turn, will require himself to rely fully on Kallus. If the Imperial agent didn’t look so determined-- _and, kriff it, handsome too--_ he would protest. But, he _does_ ; and Zeb had _promised_ to trust him. 

No matter _what_.

“Yeah, alright,” he agrees. “It’s strange, but it works. And, besides, like ya said, we gotta trust each other if we’re gonna survive.” 

The smile that dawns upon Kallus’ face is bright enough to illuminate the frozen cave. 

“Thank you, Garazeb. Now, let’s get going: I don’t want your strength to give out!”

Kallus’ odd plan works surprisingly well. As they begin, the agent shifts from Zeb’s back to his front, positioning himself between his open legs. When Kallus releases his grasp from around Zeb’s neck--gloved hands sliding over his frost-scattered fur--he makes brief, yet intense, eye contact with him: gaze open and eager and _burning._ Zeb’s stomach flips--and what is all _that_ about?--but before he can consider it further, long, golden hair is rushing between them. When the moment arrives, he jerks on the braid with a great, grunting effort, pulling the dangling agent below to a halt. 

Kallus _gasps,_ making Zeb look down anxiously. 

“Ya alright down there?” he calls. 

_“Y-yes!_ ” Kallus’ reply sounds strained. “Just, _hurry up!_ Onto the next step!” 

Focusing on the task, Zeb obeys. He flexes the muscles of his thighs and abdominal muscles, and swings a long, sweeping arc _(with Kallus attached)_ back and forth over the hissing Bonzami. After a few passes to build up momentum _,_ he proceeds to the most dangerous part of the plan: releasing the hair, and effectively launching Kallus upward and outward, propelled towards the mouth of the cave and the crevice of light. 

To Garazeb’s _great_ surprise and relief, he finds that the man actually _makes_ it. 

“We did it!” Agent Kallus calls from the mouth of the cave. Kneeling down in the snow, pale face burning with victory, he gazes down at Zeb with a radiant pride. For a moment, Zeb just _stares._ The man’s smile. The man’s eyes. The man’s _hair._

“Don’t celebrate yet!” he calls back. “I still gotta join ya. Kallus, throw down yer hair!” 

For a heart-stopping moment, Garazeb Orrelios thinks that he has been tricked. He watches the man disappear from the light, and he is left blinking up at the white, swirling landscape from far below. Just as he is _certain_ that the other man has betrayed him--just as he is _certain_ that the Imp has done exactly what he should have _expected_ him to do--he reappears. 

He’s removed his bo-rifle from where Zeb had splinted it around his leg, and he’s looped his long braid around it for extra leverage. 

“Climb up!” Kallus yells, tossing the length of hair down to Zeb. 

And he does. 

Kallus is waiting for him, crouching upon the ice. His pale face is strained from the cold and the pain, but his golden eyes _dance,_ and there’s a rosy bloom of pride across his freckled cheeks. Zeb joins with grinning in turn: a lower canine peeks out from his lower lip, and he smirks at Kallus as he accepts the open, gloved hand with his paw. 

_“My hero,”_ Kallus beams, squeezing his hand. If Zeb didn’t know the man better from all of their deadly interactions, he would think that he even meant it. He doesn’t however; and so he shoves the human playfully, pushing him off to the side as he laughs. 

“All in a day’s work,” he replies, kneeling to meet the other man in the snow. “You feelin’ okay after all that?”

Kallus’ teasing smile flickers a little at that. “My leg has felt better than this,” he admits candidly, “and...I _may_ have some frost-bite.” 

Frowning, Zeb moves to inspect the human’s hands. Kallus tries to pull away, but he holds onto the other’s wrist easily, sliding back the glove to reveal chapped and discolored skin. “ _Ouch,”_ he says softly, running a hand over the purpling knuckles. “Yeah, we better get ya into some warmth.” 

The human raises an eyebrow at him. 

“And where do you propose we might find such a thing, other than _this?”_ He raises his other hand to tug at the side of his cuirass, revealing the faint, yellow light of the buried meteorite. “We’re not exactly on the beaches of Scarif.” 

Zeb smiles back at him. _Funny._ That’s another thing he’s learned about Kallus out of this whole ordeal: the man has a sense of humor, even in the face of death. “Bein’ a rebel has left me with a decent set of survival resources,” he replies. “If there’s another cave like this one-- _without_ the chickens--I should be able to heat us up.” 

This time, _both_ of Kallus’ eyebrows shoot up. 

“And what exactly do you have in mind?” he asks. 

Garazeb Orrelios stares at the other man. So much of this has been... _unexpected._ Being surprised by Imperials; crashing into the ice moon with Kallus; outwitting and escaping the bonzami; discovering Kallus’ _glorious_ hair; getting to know the other man’s human side; and _now._ Now...is he... _flirting_ with him? It might just be the cold, because that doesn’t make any sense. It _has_ to be. 

“Like I said: rebel secrets,” Zeb answers. And--just in case--he favors the other man with a wink.

* * *


	3. PART TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Thanks for your patience! 
> 
> Please note the following content warnings and tags: battle scenes, torture, threats, physical harm and violence, hair cutting, humiliation, trauma, aftermath of torture, references to psychological suffering and torture. Please tread carefully if you have experienced any kind of abuse or assault. 
> 
> With all that being said... I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**THIRTEEN MONTHS LATER**

**LOTHAL**

**_BRIDGER TOWER_ **

* * *

Alexsandr Kallus--once known to all as _ISB Agent 021_ , and now known only to few as Rebellion operative _Fulcrum--_ leans over the communication transmission panels. 

His chest is heaving: the breathless race from Grand Admiral Thrawn’s ship to the secured location to relay his call had required no less than holding his breath in silence, sprinting, and disarming a man for his speeder-bike. It had all been worth it, though; as far as Kallus can tell, he has been able to make the trip to the tower undetected. _And an essential thing, too,_ he thinks to himself. _This is critical and timely information. Perhaps, the most important information that I’ve had to relay back to the Rebels yet._

Gathering his swirling thoughts, Kallus wipes the fallen, golden hairs from his sweating brow. 

He hadn’t _meant_ to uncover news of Thrawn’s horrifying discovery. It was all a matter of practice and protocol, sending out an MSE droid after the leadership while there was such a high-profile meeting. But the information that he’d overheard had made his blood run _cold._

They’d discovered the Rebellion’s impending plans on Lothal. And Thrawn’s next move was to _destroy_ them. 

_“Admiral Thrawn?” Grand Moff Tarkin had inquired, his reedy voice dripping with disdain and impatience even over the holo. “I trust that the information you have for me was worth the wait?”_

_Thrawn’s thin lips had curled. “Yes, sir. The rebels of the so-called ‘Phoenix Squadron’ are about to launch a major military strike against the Empire. Everything leading up to this moment has been rehearsal; the real performance is about to begin.”_

_Kallus, watching from the MSE droid projection, took in a sharp breath. Karabast!_

_“You have my attention,” Tarkin had replied. “What target will the rebels attack?” He’d looked both pleased and predatory as Thrawn had reported their plans about dismantling the TIE defender factory on Lothal. When Thrawn had finished his report, the man had looked almost hungry. “Good,” he’d replied. “A coordinated attack by multiple rebel cells is unprecedented; and it’s exactly this moment I’ve been waiting for to wipe them out.”_

_Kallus had worried at his lower lip, listening attentively._

_“I want you to capture their leadership, Grand Admiral. If we are to crush this rebellion, then we must make examples of all of it’s leaders.” Tarkin had smiled coldly at Thrawn. “I realize that it may not be possible to take prisoners, but a man of your talents will manage.”_

_Thrawn had dipped his head in cool acknowledgement. “As you wish, Governor.”_

_At this, Kallus had immediately retrieved his spying MSE droid. He’d have to relay the information as Fulcrum; and quick. For someone like Garazeb Orrelios and the other Spectres, it could be a matter of life and death._

Pushing the buttons of the communications device and queuing a line to Atollon, Kallus waits anxiously for the blue, fuzzy holo of the transmission. When it finally blooms to life on the screens before him, scanning over his face and preparing for a vocal recording, he releases a deep sigh of relief. He hadn’t known he’d been clutching that inside of his lungs. Once again wiping sweat from his brow, Kallus clears his voice and prepares to relay his message. 

“This is Agent Fulcrum with an urgent message,” he begins, trying his best to speak clearly and thoroughly. “Thrawn knows about--” 

Suddenly, the world around him grows still. The holo before him turns into a chilling blood-red.

Outside of the static buzzing of a cutoff transmission, Alexandr Kallus cannot hear the world around him. It is as though he has been caught up and suspended inside of a shield bubble: isolated from the influence of sight, sound and smell in the world around him. In this moment of shock and suspense, a terrible thought begins to spool out in his mind: _He knows. He knows. It’s Thrawn, and he knows--_

“By the light of Lothal’s moons…” a smooth, ice-cold voice says softly from behind him. 

Even though Kallus has just now begun to anticipate what is coming, he cannot not stop the shiver of surprise and terror that rolls through his body at the reality of the other man in the room. Grand Admiral Thrawn’s voice speaking to him strips away any illusion that things will be okay; that it might just be alright.

“...That is your code-phrase. Is it not, Agent Kallus?” 

Squeezing his eyes shut to muster up courage, Kallus inhales through his nose. Surprisingly, in what might be his final moments of freedom, it is the image of _Zeb_ that floats into his head. Yes, he knows that he is indebted to the Lasat for his awakening realization about the Empire’s corruption; yes, he can name the man as the one who had ‘recruited’ him to the cause. But his vision isn’t of the other man on ‘professional’ terms: it’s of his cocky, fanged _smile_ ; his beckoning _claw_ ; and the strong, reassuring way that he’d clung to Kallus in the ice cave, sheltering him with the heat of his body and hide as they’d weathered the worst of the ice storm together. 

“...Or would you prefer for me to address you as _‘Fulcrum’?”_

_He knows. He knows. It’s Thrawn, and he knows._

Kallus opens his eyes, turning to face the Grand Admiral of the Empire’s Navy. Truly, it _is_ him in the flesh, and not some kind of waking nightmare: for the glowing, red haze of his eyes is enough to verify his presence here in the room with Kallus. The sharp planes of the Chiss’ nose, temple and cheekbones seem all the more sharp-cut and severe in the low lighting of the evening darkness, illuminated by the blood-red glow of his gaze. And even though his face is expressionless, Kallus feels as though he can sense a distinct _anger_ emanating from the other man. Perhaps, it is visible in the stiffness of his shoulders; the clench of his jaw. 

“I’m afraid that your... _Rebel_ friends won’t receive your warning,” Thrawn informs him quietly. “Just as I am certain that you, a _traitor_ , will not be leaving this place _alive_.”

And, at this moment, Kallus doesn’t doubt it. He’s seen the Grand Admiral spar; he’s seen him take down multiple, armed battle droids at one time. _The man isn’t human,_ he tells himself, thinking of the alien power and grace of someone like Garazeb. _And I cannot hope to fight him. Not unless I give this my everything, my very best._

Baring his teeth, Kallus studies the other man. It is useless pretending.

“Yes. You’re right: I have chosen my side,” he replies in voice far more strong than he currently feels. “Which is more than I can say for you, Grand Admiral.” 

He watches his former commanding officer’s lip curl in a furious expression. It is no secret that Thrawn prides himself for being someone who keeps a tight hold on his emotions; if Kallus is able to get a rise out of him right now, he must be touching upon something _very_ intimate. Which could, perhaps, work to his advantage. 

“Perhaps,” Thrawn replies, voice pitched dangerously low. “And yet, only _one_ of us here tonight is a _fool_.” 

Kallus is ready for the first blow. He finds himself ducking and lurching out of the way as the Grand Admiral lashes forward in a kick, extending those long and dangerous legs within striking distance. Dancing into the open space near his side, Kallus sturdies his legs and raises his fists. 

The Imperial smirks at him. “You think to fight me?” he asks with snide mockery. 

_I don’t have much of a choice,_ Kallus thinks to himself. With a hiss, he dodges out of the way for the second incoming strike: a combination of two kicks and two punches. Each of them nearly hits their mark at his side or chest, making him dizzy with the speed of the Chiss’ reactions. _This doesn’t look good. I’m going to have to think fast. Use my tools and surroundings._

Kallus isn’t lucky enough to avoid the third aggressive flurry. 

While his eyes are scanning around the room for assistance, Thrawn manages to feign in one direction and swing at him from the other. The strike, unfortunately lands on his bad knee: hitting precisely upon the place where it had broken on Bahryn, as if the other man had _known_ how to locate his weakness. 

“ _AAArarrch!”_ he cries, injured leg crumpling. 

Kallus continues to snarl and blink back tears as another strike connects with his shoulder; this time, a forearm and a closed _fist._ The impact of the ringing blow makes him gasp, and he’s nearly reeling as he falls to the floor. Lights flash in front of his eyes, and his vision narrows. _THINK, KALLUS!_ He grunts, rolling out of the way of another attack. _THINK!_

_“You,_ ” Thrawn sneers, “Never even stood a _chance.”_

And _that_ is when the light of Lothal’s moons catches his eye. Blinking back stinging tears and the hot trickle of blood, Kallus gazes through the transparisteel window to see the illumination of Lothal’s sky beyond. _If I can just get him to the edge of the tower,_ he thinks, heart pounding within his chest, _then perhaps_ _I might be able to throw him off!_

Maybe the Grand Admiral can see the spark of _hope_ in his eye; and _that_ is what makes him strike Kallus all the harder with his next blows _._

Reeling from the punishment and fury of his attacker, Kallus crawls towards the edge of the tower. As he moves with his belly dragging upon the durasteel floor, he also feels himself drawing the movement and attention of his opponent with him. He can tell from the impact of a booted heel upon his skull and shoulder; he can tell from the burning, sick ache in his re-broken lower limb and, now, his spine. Each one of the blows makes his body scream out in pain, although he keeps a tight clamp on his bloodied lips. 

When they reach the edge, Kallus feigns a submissive position. It works; for a moment, Thrawn pauses in triumph. That is when he reaches out, gasping the unsuspecting man by the ankle. 

“Maybe not me, _alone_ ,” he rasps, yanking on the leatheris boot, “but I’m not alone!”

Wth a firm yank, he kicks and uses their combined momentum to draw Grand Admiral Thrawn towards the edge of the tower. “There are other _Fulcrums_. There are other _Rebels_.” Thrawn snarls, gripping the edge of the railing as he topples over. “Even if I die, the Rebellion lives on!” 

Because this is the truth that Alexsandr Kallus has learned during this past year as Fulcrum: that he is an essential, invaluable part of something _greater._ The combined effort of so many beings--all of them with value, all of them with their own greatness--can combine into something even more powerful, more beautiful than before. By collaborating together, by sharing their knowledge and wisdom and skill-sets and _hope_ , the Rebellion has gathered together and become a movement that not even the greatest powers of death can destroy. Even if Alexsandr Kallus dies today, his life and his efforts will always matter; because he is a part of something good. Because their efforts are legion. Because, combined, their witness to hope and justice for all is part of an unfolding movement of liberation. The thoughts bring tears to his eyes. 

Sounds and shapes at the corner of his eyesight make Kallus turn suddenly. 

It’s still too late: the guards _(because of course a Grand Admiral of the Empire’s Navy would bring backup, why wouldn’t Kallus expect that?!)_ move from where they wait in the shadows, striking out and grasping at either one of his arms. He yells and flails, doing his best to throw them off, but it doesn’t matter: Thrawn extricates himself from Kallus’ grasp, and he is lifted up from the floor and bound in durasteel chains. 

The strong, gloved hand of a trooper forces his head down. Kallus snorts in pain, spitting. 

“An admirable thought, _Former_ Agent Kallus.” Stepping in front of him, Grand Admiral Thrawn clasps a hand around Kallus’ bruised jaw. "But wrong nonetheless." He grunts in pain as his teeth and split lip are crushed together, and yet, he does not resist as the Chiss brings his jaw up to face him. Forced between the stormtrooper’s hand on his neck and Thrawn’s fist on his jaw, Kallus can only stare. Thrawn’s eyes are bright and scarlet, with his blue-black eyelashes fluttering dangerously. If he wasn’t so cruel, he could be beautiful.

“...You have the heart of a Rebel," Thrawn sneers. 

And in spite of his painful defeat, his imminent death, and the certain loss of the people he loves, Kallus thinks of Zeb. The thought of the Lasat, seeing him finally standing up before the Empire for what he believes in, makes his heart thunder within his chest. He can almost imagine the way that a hug would feel from him, wrapping him up within that warm, gentle embrace. 

"I'll take that as a compliment," he hears himself reply. 

* * *

_He is warm._

_Resting in the arms of Garazeb Orrelios--no, Zeb--Kallus is surrounded by blissful heat. All around them, snowflakes are falling gently. Glittering icicles line the mouth of the cave, looking for all the galaxy like the fangs of his enemy. In the arms of a Lasat, Kallus realizes that he should be feeling in more danger; and yet, ironically, he’s never felt more safe, and protected._

_And warm, of course._

_Kallus is nestled into the fuzzy, hot fur and jumpsuit of the Ghost’s largest Rebel agent. Here, he’s free to abandon his frost-bitten armor, and to be wrapped in the radiant heat of the Lasat’s embrace. Surprisingly, he can hardly feel the cold wind as it moves over their slumbering forms. All that he feels is the lovely, bone-deep understanding that he is protected and safe. Safe from the vicious, life-threatening temperatures; safe from the razor-toothed creatures hiding in the cave; safe from the mighty Empire, who might never even come looking for him; safe from the Rebels, whom Zeb has assured would treat him fairly._

_He digs his hands and face into Zeb’s chest._ **_I do not deserve to be treated fairly,_ ** _he thinks._

_There is a stirring, and one warm, heavy, four-fingered paw soothes over his back. Garazeb Orrelios, as it turns out, is cuddly in his sleep. Not only is he strong and courageous; not only is he honorable and brave; but he is sweet. Affectionate, even in his subconscious. The thought makes Kallus shiver, although only warmth radiates between them._

_Zeb’s low, gravelly voice breaks through the sleepy silence._

_“Are ya still cold?” he asks, great hand stiffening slightly as he becomes more aware of how he’s been idly stroking the ISB agent. “I could take off my jumpsuit, if you’d rather…?”_

_This doesn’t help his tremors. Agent Kallus squeezes his eyes shut, huffing in a steaming breath of the Lasat’s musk._ **_Yes, that is most certainly what I need,_ ** _he thinks, swallowing and fighting down the arousal building up in his groin like a fire._ **_A naked and snugly Lasat, wrapped all around me._ ** _He hisses through his teeth as the tantalizing thought makes its way through his mind. Somehow, the terrible, mocking enemy within his mirror and mind had transformed into the soft, pliant-bodied companion beneath him. It doesn’t make any sense._

_It leaves him with a gut-rotting sense of self-loathing and guilt. And physical warmth, of course._

_“What’s eatin’ ya?” Zeb asks, lying his head back down on the floor of their insulated ice cave. “Ya thinkin’ about our conversation about the Empire again?”_

_And, ah, there it is: the reason why someone like Alexandr Kallus should hate himself. The reason why someone like Garazeb Orrelios, who had lost an entire planet and people, would always hate soldiers of the Empire like him. The reason why something like...this...would never work. Because Kallus couldn’t and shouldn’t delude himself into thinking that he and Zeb could become friends. Let alone, become some sort of lovers. In what galaxy would that happen?_

_“Yes,” he admits, deciding once again that the Lasat is trustworthy. “I suppose that I am.”_

_Zeb hums in approval. It’s more of a purring sound, really: the reverberations of his vocal chords thrumming within that great neck, making the short, velveteen fur under his throat vibrate with a fine intensity. With his head and lips so near, Kallus can almost reach out and touch it--and he finds himself wanting to._

_“Just do like I said, Kal,” the Lasat says sleepily. “Seek out answers: ya won’t come away from it all empty- handed.”_

_One of his own, massive hands runs through Kallus’ golden hair. It’s been loosened, now: the long braids had become windswept and mussed during the climb. Kallus had unwoven the smooth plaits that had been bound together for so long, his fingertips growing numb and stiff in the cold until the Lasat had offered to take over._

_And then--well, Kallus had learned what it felt like to have claws scratching softly over his scalp._

_“It cannot possibly be that easy,” he replies to the other man. Feeling the sensation of hands running through his long hair, he closes his eyes. Right now, he knows that it pours messily over his shoulder; cloaking him, surrounding them like some kind of curtain. Or bedclothes. “Once I start asking questions, I’m going to get into trouble...lose my job, lose my place.” he sighs, both from the pleasure of feeling of Zeb’s hands, and from the sorrow of his newfound burden. “I may very well be back on the streets again.”_

_A pause, then Zeb resumes the stroking motion over his head. More firmly, more sure this time._

_“There are worse things,” the Lasat replies. His words are stern, but his voice is gentle. “Don’ forget my offer. Like I said: ya could always come back on the Ghost with us. My crew; they’re like family. They’d treat ya fairly. Get ya a trial.”_

_Kallus snorts. He knows how that goes. At least, he knows how it would go in an Imperial prison._

_“Thank you again for the offer, Gar--Zeb,” he replies, trying out the new name on his mouth once again. “But I simply cannot imagine that at this present time. Yes, I am going to try out what you recommended…seek the answers, face myself and all that...but I can only do this kind of thing one step after another. I can’t lose everything all at once. I can’t lose myself.”_

_There is a stirring beneath him, and Kallus feels himself being drawn into the warmth of the Lasat’s chest._

_He groans softly, leaning into the heat as though it is the finest luxury. Zeb throws another burly, striped arm around him, so that they are now fully entwined with a tangle of warm limbs and long, wavy, golden hair. If Alexsandr Kallus was not so certain of the aching pain in his leg (and the persistent shame in his heart), he would think that he’d been knocked unconscious in the pod crash earlier that night. To be held and spoken to like this, by his enemy..._

_“Ya should get some rest, Kal,” Zeb’s voice rumbles from all around him. “Yer gonna need all the strength that you can manage when the sun comes up tomorrow.”_

* * *

Squinting through his swollen, bruised eyelids, Alexsandr Kallus can hardly see. 

He’d awoken that morning-- _is it morning?--_ feeling as though every inch of his body was bruised. In true form of the Empire’s punishment, Thrawn’s troopers and droids had not gone easy on him during his torture. The Grand Admiral had not deigned to inflict the wounds himself; he’d allowed others to do that, working their vibro-knives between his ribs and under his toes, beating him with their clubs before knocking him into unconsciousness with electro-staffs.

Kallus knew that he was lucky to be alive. But he suspected--somewhere, low in the pit of his stomach--that there was something worse coming. Unfortunately, he didn’t have to wait long to find out. 

There is a hissing, pneumatic sound as the doors to the prisoner’s holding cell slides open. Grand Admiral Thrawn, impeccable and threatening in his pure-white uniform, is flanked by the stark contrast of two armored Death Troopers. Neither one of them is armed, however; and that should have tipped off Kallus, more than anything, that something unspeakable was coming. 

“I take it that you rested well?” the man’s smooth, accented voice asks. 

Kallus looks up from where his eyes are locked upon the ground. When his gaze connects with the other man’s--scarlet, luminous and cold--he cringes. “ _No,”_ he growls, spitting the words back at the other man. _I’m no longer your puppet. I won’t play pretend. And I won’t call you Sir._ “It was terrible. As you surely intended.” 

The Grand Admiral smiles. Or, what could account for a smile--there is the slightest ticking upward of his lip, and a pinch in the corner of one red, shadowed eye. 

“As I surely did,” he replies with a nod. “Troopers: release him, and bring him down to the bridge. The former-agent Kallus and I have special preparations to make, in anticipation for our welcome to the incoming Rebellion troops over Atollon.” 

Knives of self-hatred and regret twist in his gut. _DAMN it all! Another one of my mistakes!_

“Make sure to keep his hands bound,” Thrawn adds, eyeing the furious look on Kallus’ bruised face. “We don’t want any kind of near-mistakes like we had last night.” There is a slight feeling of satisfaction in his broken heart at the Chiss’ admittance to that much; in some ways, he was practically throwing Kallus a compliment. “Let us go now.” 

The jerk at his binders and chains is enough to make the tears of pain start afresh. 

Kallus barely notices his surroundings as he limps his way towards the bridge between the pair of Death Troopers. _I won’t give him the satisfaction of my embarrassment,_ he thinks, keeping his chin up as he sucks in ragged breaths. _I won’t go hobbling around like some sort of defeated prisoner. I will keep my head high, and hold onto my honor._ Gritting his teeth, Kallus thinks again of Zeb’s smile, and forces himself to walk as though the Lasat were watching.

He should have realized that this is precisely these sort of honor thoughts that his enemy intended to strip him of. 

When the bridge comes into view, Kallus nearly loses his carefully-crafted composure. The battle over Atollon is already raging; ships are a flurry of firefight around them, and the _Chimera_ has powered up lasers and aimed them for the planet’s surface. With a horrible, sinking feeling, Kallus considers how many people would be trapped beneath that lethal ray before they realized what was happening; how many people would never understand that their Fulcrum had _failed_ them, and what his failure had cost them. 

“Enjoying the view?” the Grand Admiral’s voice slices through his frozen silence of horror. 

Kallus turns to glare at the Chiss man, who is watching him with an unreadable expression. There is not satisfaction there, as he’d expected to see; nor is there pleasure, at observing the certain death of thousands of innocent civilians and Rebels. Instead, his features are once again a blank mask, devoid of emotion. It is as though he has closed himself off from every sensation. “You’re making a mistake,” he growls at the man in reply. “The Rebels will use your location to find you and _win._ We’re going to pull through out of this, and be stronger than ever.” 

“Perhaps,” Thrawn replies. His eyes flash, deathly cold. “But you won’t.” He turns to one of the Death Troopers, motioning the man into action. “Bring him to his knees,” he commands. “And remove his helmet.” 

_NO!_ There is a flash of sickness in Kallus’ stomach. _No, no no!_ Somehow, even for this long, he’s been able to maintain the privacy and security of his helmet. Even in the midst of torture, he’d managed to keep it on with him. All this time, he’d suspected that the Death Troopers had simply forgotten, or discounted it; he hadn’t considered that maybe they’d _left it_ on _purpose,_ due to one of his enemy’s twisted orders. 

_He knows. He knows. It’s Thrawn, and he knows._

Kallus struggles, but the effort is futile. With the firm hands of the Death Troopers forcing him to the ground, his weak knees collapse. He grunts in pain as his broken leg hits the floor, twisting painfully beneath him; but he cries out in anguish as the helmet is ripped from his head, exposing the beautiful, tangled mess of his bloodied hair. His head-binding has slipped free, and the golden locks are already falling in pools over his shoulders. 

“Hold him,” the Grand Admiral commands one of the Death Troopers. To the other, he says, “You: keep his head up. I want him to _see.”_

Alexsandr Kallus cannot stop the terrible sob that tears from his throat as the man comes to standing behind him, one hand gripping onto his neck, and the other working a pair of glimmering vibro-shears. 

He cannot stop the _scream_ as the vibrating blades touch his head, sending the locks of golden hair scattering. 

“ _This_ is what I intend for you to always remember,” the Grand Admiral says, his voice as frozen as the fingers that grip into his skin with that bruising grasp. “That you are _nobody._ That you are _nothing.”_ Fingernails dig into his flesh as the vibro-shears make another pass over his scalp, leaving a patch of his precious head bare. “The Empire made you, and the Empire can take you away. You are _weak.”_

Another braid falls. 

“You are _nobody.”_

Another. 

“And it is _your fault_ that this is happening to your precious Rebels.” 

The world spins around him as sobs tear from his chest, tears pour from his eyes, as Kallus feels his most vulnerable part of his life and identity being stripped away. The memorized story of his loving parents, one that he’d always held within his mind; the shouted assurance of a better, safer galaxy once the Empire had been destroyed; the whispered promise of a kinder, gentler life with Zeb once he’d escaped. It all comes crashing down around him, pooling like the severed hair at his feet. He watches the _Chimera_ shooting at the base on Atollon, and feels his fragile hope crumble around him. 

When it is over, Kallus cannot make sounds. 

His whole scalp and face has been shaved bare, and his recent cuts and abrasions sting with fresh sweat and tears. Unlike that night he’d spent with Zeb in the warmth of the dark, he is _cold:_ colder, and more bare, than he’s ever been. The Death Troopers are no longer holding him back; they no longer need to. Kallus is hunched with his hands and knees upon the floor, gasping silent breaths of shame and regret. 

“It would be a mercy to kill you,” Thrawn’s voice whispers softly. “To finally end what you are feeling now.”

_Yes,_ Kallus thinks, his body burning and his heart aching. _Yes. There is no point now. The Rebellion has lost; I am lost; nobody cares, and nobody will come for me. I have received what I deserve for my cruelty all these years. At least, when death comes to take me now, I will not have to look at Garazeb with these same, guilty eyes._

“And that is why I choose to leave you _alive,”_ Thrawn’s chill voice continues, low as a whisper. “So that you may feel the extent of your betrayal to yourself and your former Empire.” 

Something about that makes a ghost of resistance stir in his mind. _I have not betrayed myself._

He thinks of Zeb, offering to bring him with his crew on the _Ghost_ to the Rebellion. He thinks of the past year as Fulcrum, tirelessly relaying dangerous information. He thinks of Lyste, and Tua, and others who he’d been forced to betray in part of his service. He thinks of the many conversations with Kanan and Hera, with Sabine and Ezra. 

_He thinks of Zeb._

As Kallus feels himself slipping into the dark of unconsciousness, he hears Thrawn speaking over the comm: “And _now,_ Captain Syndulla I will accept your formal surrender.” There is an answer, and a long, tense pause. When the Grand Admiral’s voice returns, it holds none of the same kind of calm, collected presence as before. Now, it sounds almost... _frightened._

“W-what kind of Jedi devilry is _this?!”_ he snarls.

But it is not likely that Kallus will ever find out, because everything is slipping away into darkness. Everything, that is, besides the dark, shadowed figure of one of the Death Troopers. Who, for some odd enough reason, is dragging him through the commotion unfolding upon the bridge, and shoving him roughly into an escape pod.

“It was never supposed to be like this," the man mutters, punching in coordinates. " _Eli_ would have never wanted this...”

Unable to discern what those strange words mean, Kallus plunges into unconscious darkness. He does not know that, soon, he will be gathered into the safe haven of the _Ghost's_ landing bay; he does not know that, soon, he will be collected once more against Garazeb Orrelios' warm chest, held firmly and anxiously in his protection until he could be fully attended by medics. It would be some time before he could wake up from this nightmare again; it would be even longer, before he would be able to heal enough to walk. 

But, even so, he was well on his way. And Zeb was coming to rescue him. 

* * *

**THREE MONTHS LATER**

**_INTELLIGENCE CENTER_ **

**YAVIN IV, A CURRENT REBEL BASE**

* * *

The sunlight on Yavin 4’s base is strong; strong enough that Alexsandr Kallus--former Agent of the Empire, former Fulcrum of the Rebellion--needs to get himself a new hat. But for now, he’d rather leave his head bare. That way, he can enjoy it when Zeb stops by his desk at the intelligence office, running one of his gentle hands over the puffy down of his newly-grown hair. 

“Kal!” 

_Ah. There he is now._ The sound of Garazeb Orrelios’ voice makes every part of Kallus flood with warmth. From the freckled skin of his face to the splinted ache of his of healing limb, he feels himself _beaming_ as the purple-striped Lasat comes around the corner. Zeb waves one, massive hand at him as he appears around the side of the temple, grinning at Kallus with that trademark, cheeky smile that he's become so familiar with and fond of. These days, Kallus has come to know that when a fang is involved in the underbite--as it is today--Zeb is feeling particularly playful. 

“Hello, Zeb,” he greets the man who has rapidly become his best friend ( _if not, perhaps, something more)._ “It’s good to see you.”

And it _is_ good: he feels the truth of it surge inside of his chest. Kallus watches as the largest Spectre strides towards him, glowing with health in the afternoon jungle sunshine, his powerful legs and strong, flexing muscles making his striped pelt ripple under his pelt. Kallus grins, and Zeb’s ears twitch forward with interest at his sounded approval.

"And you," Zeb replies. He walks over to Kallus' desk, close enough that the former Fulcrum can hear the low-pitched, vibrating purr that hums in his throat and chest. 

“Have you heard any word yet from the others?” he asks, trying to make himself sound causua. Sabine Wren had left with the _Ghost_ on a mission for Mandalore, and she’d brought with a small handful of recruits, including her newly-arrived ‘friend’ Ketsu and their fellow comrade and current Fulcrum, Ahsoka Tano. "I thought that we might've heard that they'd made their rendezvous point..." 

Zeb hums cheerfully and leans against Kallus’ desk.

“Nah," he replies, "but I don’t expect to hear from ‘em until about sometime next week." Zeb snrugs, and the action makes Kallus' eyes follow the rolling trail of muscles on his neck and shoulders. “After all, they _just_ left yesterday. Can’t be too impatient about the whole thing!” He cracks open one eye, favoring Kallus with a green, glimmering crescent of humor. “Not _everybody_ can be as prompt about communicating their plans as our Fulcrum.” He winks. 

Kallus blushes. He _likes_ it when Zeb calls him by the old code-name; even though it still brings back the occasional tremor. 

“I’m not the Fulcrum anymore, Zeb,” he replies carefully, dropping his gaze to the stack of flimsy upon his desk. Like all of the other days, he’s finished them in record time. But if he’d done it out of a restless, deeply-Imperial compulsion to work, or out of the desire to be free when Zeb came around and asked him to lunch, _well._ Who's to say? “My days serving in that manner are over. You know that already.” 

His friend leans over, swinging an arm around him. Kallus sighs, enveloped in warm heat and security of the other man's arm. “Yeah,” Zeb replies, rubbing a bearded cheek against the top of Kallus' scruffy, short-cropped head. “But yer always gonna be _my_ Fulcrum.” 

Alexsandr Kallus finds himself blushing scarlet again, whole body illuminating with pleasure and pride. He chuckles nervously, leaning back into Zeb’s touch, enjoying the easy camaraderie with the other man. He’d found out quickly on base that Zeb the Lasat is _very_ tactile--and _casually_ so, to the point that he never hesitates to show Kallus affection by throwing a heavy, welcome arm around him; or scent-marking him, rubbing his furry jaw on his head; or pulling him into a strong, thick-armed hug. 

At first, after the events on the _Chimera,_ it had made Kallus wary. But now, he leans into every moment and touch. 

Zeb makes that rich, throaty purring sound again, holding Kallus as though he is the most precious thing to him in the world. “Ya wanna go get some lunch?” he asks, voice bubbling with happiness. “I thought maybe we could take it down by the river, if yer game? Maybe even do some sparring afterwards, if ya still got the energy for a break?" 

Kallus raises his eyebrows and smiles. Every day on Yavin 4 has been a new adventure with Zeb; especially, now that his body has been re-habilitated. The opening months had been incredibly challenging, but Garazeb Orrelios had walked him through it. When Kallus had worked on his physical therapy and practiced his words, Zeb had always been across the room, keeping a wary and patient eye out for him. Once he'd become strong enough, he'd taken walks with the Lasat--which often wandered into the thick, tangling woods, where they looked at tropical birds and glowing toadstools. Zeb had been the first person to push Kallus back into sparring, and it had become a routine now that he needed a training partner. He couldn't imagine his life without him. 

“Yeah,” he replies, feeling the healing scare of his once-split lip stretching wide at the expression. “Yeah, I’d like that. _Zeb_.” 

He takes his time saying Zeb's name, allows his lips to pop richly around the _‘b’_ on his name. Zeb's ears flick towards him, and the audible reminder of their time together on Bahryn makes the Lasat grin in recognition. He favors Kallus by squeezing him back with the arm that’s still around him, then turns them both to face the open doorway full of sun. 

"Brilliant!" Zeb says, steering them into the bright afternoon. "Then let's get outta here, you an' me!" 

As Kallus walks with his friend towards the mess hall, he leans into the lavender-striped man next to him. He thinks of all of the work that he's done in this past year as Fulcrum--of learning about the brokenness of the Empire, and coming to terms with his part in it. Of working to seek out the questions and answers, only to find a whole set of new ones. Of finding and re-forging his worth and identity, not only once (after joining the Rebellion as their inside man), but then again after he'd lost his hair. During all this time, he'd come to know himself; and he'd come to think about himself more gently. 

That, if nothing else, is the evidence of how his friendship with Zeb has changed him. 

"What're ya thinkin' about?" Zeb asks, pulling up suddenly. The Lasat crouches to look into his eyes, emerald staring into golden-flecked brown. His friend is not overbearing, but he is deliberate and careful about Kallus' trigger signs. He knows the start-ups of an anxiety meltdown, and can even seem to guess when the trauma triggers are pulling him back. "You alright? Ya here with me?" 

Kallus shakes his head softly and smiles. Reaching out, he places a hand on Zeb's bearded cheek. "Yes," he replies, soaking his tone of voice with the most gratitude and affection that he can possibly manage. "I'm here with you, Zeb."

And he _is._ He is a part of the Rebellion: at long last, living into the life of justice and peace that he'd always imagined. It had been a long and rocky road, finding out that his Empire had betrayed himself and all that he stands for; but he had made it through, and come upon the other side of the journey as someone else. No longer a man who looked in the mirror and hated himself, Alexsandr Kallus saw somebody who had tried and tested the world around him, and who had forged solid opinions for himself. Had forged _relationships_ of honor and trust for himself. He knows that he will never have all the answers; he know that there is a great deal of work to be done, and a great amount of Imperial pain that he must atone for. But he _also_ knows that he will not enter into this alone; because, by the work of the greatest miracle in the galaxy, there is someone who'd entered his life to save him. 

Someone good and kind. Someone sweet and strong. Someone who is worthy of love, and returns love back to him. 

"Good," Zeb replies, raising a hand to meet Kallus' where it rests upon his own. "There's nowhere else that I'd rather have ya be." 

* * *

_EPILOGUE_

_A LONG TIME AGO, IN A GALAXY FAR, FAR AWAY..._

* * *

_...There were two, loving partners who welcomed home their first child._

_They were still new to the planet of Lira San, but they'd made themselves home among the local peoples. Though their lives had been strange and complicated, the resident Lasats had welcomed them in, showing them mercy and kindness that neither one of them had expected. One of them, a Warrior, was brought down to his knees by the forgiveness that the people had offered; the other, a Child, had been given a new set of wonder and eyes for the miracles of gentleness in the world._

_It was this hope that had opened them up to the possibility of adoption._

_One day--on a sunny afternoon, surrounded by family and friends--their dearest of wishes came true. The partners gathered around around the Lira San elders to accept the bundle of joy being placed in their arms. With tears of delight, the fathers brought the tiny creature into their hearts, holding her close as they whispered her name._

_"Sasha," they called her. Lasana, for "heart."_

_Those next, tender years would be the most beautiful and generous that they’d ever know. Even the most grueling of tasks would not stop them from working together to raise their child, working two hearts as one to show her the greatest love of the galaxy. One of the husbands, clever and kind, wove together the bands of cloth from his bo-rifle to make for her a family bracelet; the other, gentle and strong, bound together the pieces of meteorite to make for her a glowing mobile for her crib._

_With nothing to bargain, and nothing to fear, the child and the family grew together strong. And their joy, like their love for one another, would endure. Always._

* * *

THE END 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES, that IS the one and only Death Trooper named Waffle. Just for the 2-3 people that are excited about this with me, haha.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave a comment and/or kudos if you have the time. <3


End file.
